The write to move...

Clouds swept across the darkened sky in a silent, ominous dance, and the moon crept out from behind their shadowy bodies to cast its gentler light onto the courtyard. My teammate Diana had mentioned earlier that a full moon was coming, bringing something less than friendly – an offhand comment now imbued with added meaning. The courtyard fire cracked and hissed as a spry elderly man with tanned, weathered hands added dry branches to the glowing embers, poking and prodding it into new life. Men young, old, wiry, tall, muscular, and baby-faced traveled across the courtyard with quiet, somber efficiency, entering and exiting the matriarchal room like diligent worker ants carrying large bowls, armfuls of branches, sprigs of fern, jugs of water, and cigarettes. Most days, that space would be used as a communal living room for a typical Mosuo family. But tonight, the door to the Life and Death Room was open, the air scented with smoke and mortality. Earlier in the day, our friends Daniel and Ankur were invited to attend the funeral of a Mosuo grandmother, a beloved family matriarch, downing full cups of bijou with family members and neighbors as they drank themselves into a celebratory, mournful stupor. They were preparing to exhume her body, followed by a village procession and the lighting of a funeral pyre on an isolated mountainside – to guide her spirit into the afterlife with the rising sun. Now we were back at her home, the whole team assembled and anticipating a long, sleepless night. Before long, a shabbily dressed Daba priest and young Tibetan lama each shuffled wordlessly through the courtyard and into the matriarchal room, initiating a flurry of orchestrated movement around us. The men followed after them, filling the room with prostrated bodies. Suddenly, the woman who had ushered us into the courtyard, had given us rice crispy-like hwa hwa and hot barley tea, cast herself onto the edge of a stone planter and began wailing – a painful, mesmerizing cry. An older, wrinkled woman fell to the ground, grabbed her knees and rocked herself back and forth. Together they sang a ritual, moaning chant of distress and loss. Others gathered round, offering a warm hand or comforting whisper. Some added to their chilling chorus. The night air mingled with incense, echoing loudly with plaintive cries, prayers and sutras. I was alone now, the remaining women crowed into the matriarchal room. I looked up at the moon and listened to the mysteries of life and death.